Bite him.
Make him ours.
Oisín’s face appeared above him next to Fionn’s, upside down, his golden hair falling free of its knot, framing his face like a halo. “Stubborn arse,” he muttered, pressing a waterskin to Cian’s lips. “Drink, before you embarrass yourself further.”
Don’t touch me.
Only Reaper should touch me.
Cian obeyed, the cool water doing little to douse the fire in his veins. His mark throbbed as if with a heartbeat of its own. When he looked down, the blue had spread further, creeping toward his elbow like ivy, like it was alive and hungry, devouring his skin inch by inch. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a mocking reminder of what he couldn’t have.
Darragh crouched on his other side, his voice low, his dark eyes serious. “You can’t keep pushing like this, brother. That bond’s too fresh; it will eat you alive if you do not rest.”
Cian clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The pain was a distraction, a grounding force in the storm of his own body. “I don’t have time for this.” The knowledge that Fionn had denied him access to the Fianna Door was sour and bitter bile in the back of his throat.
Yes.
We need to hunt our mate.
“You don’t have a choice,” Caílte rumbled. “We know the laws, and we know the why of them. Who is your Grá Croí? Tell me, and I will fetch them.”
If only it were that damn easy.
The High King didn’t need to speak for his disapproval to settle over the group like a shroud. The air grew heavier, the scent of crushed herbs and sweat and blood suddenly cloying and suffocating. Cian refused to look at him; if he did, Failinis would be tempted to rip his throat out for keeping him from leaving to hunt Reaper.
“You’re no good to your mate like this.” Fionn’s voice was calm, yet still lethal. “And you’re no good to us.”
Cian’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps, like he’d been running for miles, at the insult to his position. “I know.”
“Then act like it.” Fionn’s boot nudged his discarded swords, “Go. Cool off with your wolf and think about what you need to happen and what options you have open to you.”
You took our options away.
The resentment from his wolf side was almost enough to make him snarl, to fight, to tell Fionn to go to hell and mind his own damn business. But with some deep breaths through his nose, he managed to keep the urges at bay. The ground was steady beneath him now, the sky no longer spinning quite so violently. The rational part of his brain, not currently being drowned out by Failinis’ howling, knew Fionn was right. He was no good to anyone like this. Not to his brothers, not to his high king, and certainly not to Reaper.
He pushed himself up on unsteady arms, ignoring the hands that reached to help him. The warriors around him were silent and watchful. He could feel their eyes on him, their thoughts like whispers in the wind.
Weak. Broken. Unfit to lead.
He met each of their eyes and dared them to challenge his on-edge wolf. When all but Fionn and Oisín had backed down, he snatched up his swords and turned toward the forest. He needed to move, but more importantly, if he allowed Failinis to hunt, maybe it would help before the restlessness inside him tore him apart.
Excitement bubbled in the wolf, and he scrambled toward the door that kept him at bay when the man was in charge. He could feel the shimmer of the change as it sent sparks over his fur, and he whimpered, urging his warrior brother to hurry.
“If I let you out,” Cian said, “you must promise me that you won’t do something stupid.”
Stupid is your side of this relationship.
“Failinis…”
He is our mate.
Why did his warrior brother not feel the urge, the desire to just be close to the human called Reaper? He was their Grá Croí. Well, if he wasn’t going to ensure Reaper had time to fall under their spell, then it was up to the wolf.
“Promise me, Failinis.” Cian paused next to a Dolmen and stashed his weapons inside the door. “Our High King has commanded us not to cross the portal. You cannot disobey him.”
He whined loudly and scratched at the door, his claws ripping open new grooves to join the ones he’d placed over the years when his Fianna brother was being stupid.
“That better be an agreement,” Cian muttered as the door that kept their sides separated shifted.
